The air in Gene Takavic's office was thick with the smell of cheap paper, dust, and the faint, acrid tang of desperation. Stacks of files formed precarious towers on every available surface, a testament to a practice built on the shaky foundations of other people's problems. Gene himself was hunched over his worn desk, his brow furrowed in concentration as his quill scratched across a legal brief. The suit he wore was, predictably, a loud shade of plum, a sartorial middle finger to the drab respectability of St. Millom.
The faint jingle of the bell on his waiting room door barely registered. Another client. Probably another marital dispute or a petty contract squabble. He was about to set his quill aside with a sigh and paste on his characteristic smile when the door to his inner office swung open without so much as a knock.
He looked up, irritation flashing in his green eyes, which then widened in recognition. Framed in the doorway was James Morgan, looking like a sunbeam that had gotten lost and decided to vandalize the gloom. His suit was a prestigious yet blinding, almost aggressive golden yellow, a color that had no business existing in the Feysacian capital.
"Good evening, Mr. Goodman," Lutz joked with something only them could understand, his smile wide and effortlessly fitting the James Morgan persona.
Gene's initial irritation melted into a twisted, appreciative yet nervous smile. He leaned back in his creaking chair, the gesture dripping with theatrical weariness. "Well, look what the cat dragged in. Hey, Mr. Morgan. Has anything come up? What can I help you with? Another corporation to eviscerate on paper?"
"Yeah, something has come up," Lutz said, his tone shifting from frivolous to purposeful. "I need you to come with me."
Gene's eyebrows rose. "Come with you? I'm a lawyer, not a escort service. I mean, I bill by the hour, and 'mysterious carriage rides' are a premium service." His eyes narrowed, the pragmatist in him instantly alert. "This about the Filip thing? The contracts are airtight, I assure you. That inventor wouldn't know a predatory clause if it bit him on his genius ass."
"It's not about Filip," Lutz said simply. "It's a new business proposition. And it requires your presence."
The word 'proposition' did the trick. Gene's mercenary soul was intrigued. He looked from Lutz's unreadable face to the chaotic mess of his desk, then back again. With a grunt, he stood up. "Alright, alright. But this better be worth my while. I was about to crack a landmark case involving a disputed milk cow." He grabbed his own garish jacket—a green and blue checked affair that fought violently with Lutz's yellow—and locked the office door behind them.
A simple carriage was waiting outside. The ride was conducted in a silence that was more charged than empty. Lutz gazed out the window, his mind clearly elsewhere, while Gene studied him, his own sharp intellect trying to decipher the play.
What's the angle, 'James'? You've got your company, your inventor on a leash. What do you need me for, beyond legal paperwork? He knew better than to ask outright. With this one, you had to wait for the reveal.
The carriage eventually stopped on Weaver's Lane. Gene stepped out, looking up at the respectable facade. "Nice neighborhood. Not too flashy, not a dump. You're learning."
Lutz led him inside. The main door opened into the bright, clean reception area. Gene let out a low, appreciative whistle, his eyes taking in the new furniture, the smell of polish, the brass sign on the door.
"Well, well, well. Just fucking look at this. The Northern Star, shining ever so brightly." He ran a hand over the reception desk. "Solid. Not showy, but it says 'we have your money, but we're not stupid about it.' I'm impressed. This is a hell of a lot better than my dump. You've actually made a place that doesn't look like it's one step away from a repossession." His tone was light, sarcastic, but the compliment was genuine. He understood the theater of business, and this was a good set.
"It'll serve its purpose," Lutz said neutrally, leading him through the general office. "Ms. Vance, my accountant," he said, nodding towards the severe woman who looked up from her ledger with a gaze that could freeze hell.
"Good evening, Miss Vance" Gene gave her a charming, utterly insincere wave, which she met with a nod before returning to her numbers.
"Charming," Gene muttered under his breath. "Looks like she audits her own goddamn dreams for mathematical inaccuracies."
He saw Thomas diligently filing and Pip pretending to look busy. "And you've got the whole crew. The brains, the brawn, the… sprightly youth. You're building an empire, one desk at a time. I gotta say, I'm already getting a semi just thinking about the revenue stream once those nail-drivers hit the market. You're gonna be rolling in it."
Lutz didn't respond, instead leading him to the door of the spare room. He opened it and gestured for Gene to enter.
Gene stepped into the empty, windowless space. It was clean, with built-in shelving, but utterly barren. He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking around.
"Well, it's kind of bare right now, but it's a nice room. Good bones. You could have another office in here, maybe for another employee. A vice-president of whatever it is you're importing and exporting." He turned back to Lutz, his expression one of casual assessment.
"Yeah, true that," Lutz answered, his voice quiet. He stayed in the doorway, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips.
Gene looked at him, the confusion plain on his face for a brief moment. He saw the smile, the expectant look in Lutz's eyes. His own mind, a whirlwind of schemes and loopholes, connected the dots.
A slow, dawning grin spread across Gene's face, transforming it from merely cynical to outright wicked. He let out a short, sharp bark of laughter.
"You son of a bitch," he said, the words filled with a tone of profound respect. "You magnificent, scheming son of a bitch."
He strode forward, his hand outstretched. Lutz met it, and they shook, not with the polite formality of business associates, but with the firm, enthusiastic grip of co-conspirators who had just found their perfect counterpart.
"You're part of this show now," Lutz said, the smile finally reaching his eyes. "You can still work as a lawyer using this as your office, but of course, your main occupation will be anything related to this business. Legal, logistical, strategic… the things that require a certain kind of finesse."
"So, I'm your 'fixer'," Gene said, the term relished. "A certain stench of plausible deniability."
"Your weekly salary from me will be two Hammers, together with what you earn from your clients, as well as your shares in the company, I think you'll be pretty happy" Lutz added.
Gene whistled, this time in genuine appreciation. "Two Hammers a week? That's… that's actually respectable. That's 'maybe I'll get my office chair re-upholstered so it stops giving me splinters in my ass' money. I accept."
He started pacing the empty room, his mind already racing ahead. "Okay, okay. I'll need a desk. A big, intimidating one. Not as nice as yours, obviously, can't upstage the boss. But something that says 'I know where the bodies are buried, and I have the paperwork to prove it.' Shelves for my law books—the few I haven't pawned. A decent lock on the door. And I'm moving my practice here. No more Kogman Quarter. This is a serious upgrade. The clients I'll attract here… they'll have actual money, not just problems."
He was already envisioning it, the transformation from this bare cell into a den of profitable iniquity.
"Let's celebrate this partnership in my office," Lutz said, gesturing back across the hall. "I have some fine liquor."
Gene's sarcastic smile returned in full force. "Haha, excuse me then," he said, feigning offense. "I'm shocked, James. What would Ms. Ice-Queen-Accountant out there think?" He winked. "Lead the way. I never say no to a drink that doesn't taste like paint thinner."
He followed Lutz into the manager's office, his eyes taking in the imposing desk, the throne-like chair, the strategically placed visitor's seat. He's a natural, Gene thought, not for the first time. This is all a performance, and he's building a hell of a stage.
Lutz unlocked a drawer in his desk and pulled out a crystal decanter filled with an amber liquid and two matching glasses. It was a far cry from the rotgut Gene kept in his bottom drawer.
As Lutz poured two generous measures, Gene collapsed into the visitor's chair, making a show of testing its lack of comfort. "Ah, just as I suspected. Designed for psychological discomfort. I approve." He took the proffered glass, swirled the liquor, and took a sip. His eyes widened in genuine surprise. "Okay, that is good. Where'd you steal this from?"
"It's called 'buying it,' Gene," Lutz replied dryly, taking a seat behind his desk.
"A novel concept," Gene shot back, taking another, savoring sip. "So. We're partners. In fraud. And… what, import/export?"
"Among other things," Lutz said, his gaze level. "The Northern Star is the front. The engine. It will generate legitimate capital, provide cover, and employ people. But you and I… we operate in the spaces between the lines. We have unique perspectives."
"So, what's first on the agenda? Besides me furnishing my new palatial estate back there?" Gene asked, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "We waiting on the inventor to finish his super-tool?"
"That's one stream," Lutz nodded. "But we need to be proactive. The Northern Star needs to look busy. We need contracts. Shipping manifests. Invoices. Even if they're for a loss initially, we need a paper trail that stretches back months, not days. You're good with paperwork. Make it happen. Find some small, low-risk trades we can engage in. Use your skills."
"You want me to create a corporate history out of thin air," Gene said, his eyes gleaming. "Fabricate a past for a company that, until a week ago, was a ghost. It's beautiful. Like legal poetry. I'll have a blast with this, you have no idea." He drained his glass. "This is gonna be better than the milk cow case. So much better."
They sat in silence for a moment, the two transmigrators, in a nicely furnished office in the heart of a city that had no idea what had just landed on it. The late afternoon sun slanted through the window, illuminating the dust motes, which now seemed to dance around the two most dangerous men in St. Millom.
Gene looked at Lutz, the man who had pulled him out of his shabby office and into this web of potential and peril. He wasn't a friend. Gene didn't believe in friends in this world or the last one. But he was something rarer: an equal. A fellow player who understood the game on a fundamental level.
"You know," Gene said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet for a moment, "For a guy in a goddamn yellow suit, you're alright, Morgan."
Lutz met his gaze, and for a second, the mask of James Morgan slipped, revealing the cold, calculating intelligence of Lutz Fischer beneath. "You're not so bad yourself, for a lawyer, I mean."
Gene grinned, the moment of near-sentimentality shattered. "Hey, in this world, 'lawyer' might be a step up from 'cheat'."
"Debatable," Lutz replied, the faint smile returning as he reached for the decanter to pour them both another drink. The partnership was officially open for business.
"So... How'd you end up here?"